


I'm On a Date

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Five and Ones, M/M, Sherlock is a cockblock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: Five times Sherlock ruined John’s dates, and the one he didn’t have to.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 363





	I'm On a Date

It was a beautiful afternoon, one of those rare early spring days where the sky was blue and nearly cloudless. The chill of winter was on its way out, at least today, and the weather felt crisp instead of freezing. A perfect day for a lovely afternoon date. John was optimistic about this one.

She was a new nurse at the clinic, and they hit it off right at the beginning. John was attracted to her quick wit, her cleverness, and she was more than pleasing to the eye with her curves and auburn curls. For her part, she seemed to find John equally enjoyable. Her laughter at his jokes was genuine, and she even read his blog, or so she said.

A coffee shop might not be the fanciest place for a first date, but he knew she enjoyed coffee, and it seemed like a great choice for an afternoon date. John didn’t want to start anywhere too serious, such as a dinner date, seeing as they worked together. This could, if needed, be passed off as just two coworkers getting coffee together. 

In any case, it was a good coffee shop. The coffee and pastries were fantastic, and they were enjoying themselves. He wasn’t surprised the coffee shop was good. It had come highly recommended, actually. Unfortunately, the one who so highly sang its praises was now practically breathing down his neck and telling him they must go, now, the game was on and a case needed to be solved. That part wasn’t surprising, either.

For someone who so quickly shot him down, Sherlock keeps managing to ruin all of John’s dates. This wasn’t the first date that Sherlock had come barreling into with demands and pleas and reasons for why the date must be cut short this instant. Sherlock had managed to break up nearly all of John’s dates and was the cause of more than one eventual breakup when John had managed to convince a woman that a relationship with him would be worth the trouble of dealing with his roommate. Apparently, it never was worth it, in the end.

He honestly couldn’t even blame them. 

This one was going to be no different. He could tell by the gleam in Sherlock’s eye that John would not be getting out of whatever hairbrained idea he had in mind. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if Sherlock managed to get himself hurt and John hadn’t been there. 

He quickly and politely bid his farewell to his date, promising that he’d see her Monday at work. Sherlock tapped his foot and made a show of checking the time on his mobile, deliberately ignoring the woman sitting across from John. John sighed quietly to himself as he rose, and his date smiled uncertainty as she agreed that she’d see him on Monday while her gaze kept flicking to the man standing at their table. 

John stood up, and Sherlock grabbed John’s coat from the back of his chair and practically threw it at him as he ran out of the door and John was forced to run out after him to catch up, with the new nurse left sitting at the table by herself.

Coffee between co-workers, then. John didn’t think he wanted to count it as yet another failed date. 

-

Dinner had been a lovely affair, with a home-cooked meal and a bottle of red wine that clearly wasn’t the cheapest available. There had been candles on the small kitchen table in the flat, and the conversation, flirting, and wine had been free-flowing and generous. They had even opened a second bottle of wine, which wasn’t as nice as the first, but John wasn’t going to complain. He was feeling delightfully lightheaded, his limbs loose and languid, and was absolutely thrilled with how the evening was progressing.

Yes, his phone had been vibrating with text alerts fairly consistently throughout his date with the pretty brunette Mike had introduced him to, but he had been studiously ignoring it after checking the first two (or five) weren’t serious. Sherlock could wait. There wasn’t anything so urgent right now that it could keep him from enjoying his night out. If Greg called him, then he would know it was serious and he would deal with it then.

He pushed thoughts of his flatmate from his mind as his date suggested moving their date to the couch and maybe popping in a film, and John readily agreed, not caring what film was picked as he had very little intention of actually watching it.

Luckily for John, his date had the same opinion, and in no time at all, they were sitting on the couch snogging in front of some kind of documentary or something. It really didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was warm, arms wrapping around his shoulders and kissing him back eagerly, and he was quite enjoying himself. The phone in his pocket continued its vibrating buzz, but he continued to ignore it for much more interesting matters. 

They were progressing nicely, his date having already unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt when there was a knock on the door. 

“Ignore it,” he murmured against her mouth, and she nodded, not breaking the kiss. The knocking became more insistent, and she broke the kiss, breathless. John admired the blush that was coloring her cheeks and how thoroughly well-snogged she appeared. 

“Must be a neighbor or something. I’ll be right back,” she said, leaning back in for a quick kiss before she rose to her feet. “Stay right there…,” she whispered against his lips with a flirtatious giggle. John watched her walk towards the door and the steady source of knocking. He glanced at the television, then let his thoughts wander to how to move this to the bedroom when a deep baritone that had absolutely no business being anywhere near this place filtered into his hearing. 

Then there he was, standing in front of John, eyes sweeping over him and clearly reading everything from his undone buttons to his pinkened lips. John barely kept himself from jumping off the couch. 

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?” He did grab at his half-open shirt and started hastily redoing the buttons. 

“You weren’t answering my texts. I need your help. Lestrade called in a case. At least a seven,” he announced, a gleam in his eyes and John felt his heart rate jump in a way that it hadn’t been a moment ago. 

“I’m on a date. How did you even find me?” 

Sherlock looked at him, an eyebrow raising in silent question. Are you seriously asking me that?

“Yeah, fine, idiotic question,” John agreed, pushing to stand on his feet and carefully fixing his shirt, aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him and the accompanying smirk on his face. 

John looked over at his date and felt a momentary flash of guilt. He was going with Sherlock. It was obvious to everyone in the room, and she was staring at him with an incredulous look on her face as he went to grab his jacket. 

“I’m so sorry, I have to go. Can we, um, reschedule?” he asked, and she shook her head in astonishment. This wasn’t the first date that John had cut short with her, and he knew leaving now would be the end of all this. 

“No. Absolutely not. Lose my number,” she instructed, practically pushing the two men out of the room. “I hope you two will be happy together!” she yelled after them, and then followed the pronouncement with a solid slamming of her door.

Sherlock carefully kept his eyes averted from John as they made their way down the corridor and then down the stairs. There would be no apology, and John shook his head to rid himself of any remaining anger (and arousal) in his system. 

“So what’s the case?” he asked, and Sherlock finally looked at him as they stepped outside the doors and to the pavement outside the building. He approached the kerb and waved an arm, managing to snag a taxi in that way he almost always did. 

“Triple murder. Locked room. Should be a good one,” he explained, a rather inappropriate smile on his face for someone discussing murder. John found his own smile stretching across his mouth in response, though, his heartbeat starting to race in anticipation of what was to come.

-

It was pleasantly cool in the cinema to combat the warm evening outside, and the company was perfect for seeing a new film with. She was shy and rather quiet, and John had always thought that a date in a darkened room where you had to be quiet was good. There was no pressure to engage in conversation, and it was easy to slip a hand into your dates if you wanted.

They were watching a decent comedy. He would have preferred the new horror film, but his date hadn’t been too keen on that idea, so comedy it was. She was leaning in towards him, sharing a bucket of popcorn, their hands occasionally touching as they reached for more. Entirely accidental, of course. 

John’s attention fluctuated between the movie and the woman at his side, who John couldn’t help but notice smelled very nicely, especially when her hair brushed over her shoulders as she leaned closer for another bite of popcorn. Some kind of flower, he thought. Jasmine or gardenia, maybe. Whatever it was, she smelled lovely. 

Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he realized something about the smell reminded him of Sherlock. 

Why was he letting his thoughts wander off to Sherlock right now? The man had been clear he wasn’t interested, and his current date had been relatively clear that she was. Much more pleasant thoughts. She was shy, but he could work with shy. He knew how to give genuine compliments, and even not-so-genuine ones. Yes, this date could definitely go in his favor. He shook thoughts of Sherlock out of his mind and turned his attention back towards the movie and the woman at his side. 

Besides, John isn’t the type to go barking up a tree that has told him “no thanks”. Apparently, he was the kind of man who would sit at the base of that tree and beg for whatever attention the tree would give to him, though. Wait, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Sherlock anymore. 

Unfortunately, John is very forcibly reminded that it’s difficult to keep the man out of his thoughts as Sherlock comes swooping into the theater that he was currently sitting in. John quickly tried to hide behind the man sitting in front of him, accidentally sending his bucket of popcorn tumbling from his lap to scatter its contents all across the floor. Naturally, this was a homing beacon for attention to be sent his way as he made a ridiculous amount of noise for a man trying to hide. 

It was a good thing he never went in for a life of crime. He’d be absolute pants at it. 

“Are you okay, John?” He glanced up at his date from his crouch on the floor and nodded. Her face was a mix of confused and concerned, and John forced himself to give a smile.

“Sorry, had a leg, um, spasm,” he quickly lied, glad of the darkened cinema that hid the furious blush he could feel warming his cheeks. 

This wouldn’t be the end of his embarrassment, though, of course not. As he was trying to sweep up some of the mess back into the bucket, his date leaning down to try and add her hands into the cleaning mix, the cause of his initial distress determined now was the perfect time to make sure John knew that he was there.

“John, stop messing about. We need to go.”

“Sherlock, no. I’m on a date,” he whispered furiously, eyes glancing towards his date who was watching the two men with round eyes. 

“You weren’t answering my texts.”

“Of course not, my phone is off,” he grumbled, eyes scanning around him at all the people now sending annoyed looks their way.

“Well, that did you a lot of good, didn’t it?” Sherlock whispered back, but John wasn’t completely sure he was supposed to hear it. 

“How did you get in here, anyway?”

“I bought a ticket.”

“Wha- seriously? Why?”

“I need you to come with me and you weren't answering my texts. Obviously, I needed to come in here to get you,” he replied, sounding annoyed at having to explain what he seemed to think should have been obvious to John.

A large, warm hand enclosed over his bicep, and John felt his pulse quicken at the simple touch. A gentle tug and John abandoned his cleaning, knowing already that he was going with Sherlock, and that all of his consternation was only for show. They both knew it. He glanced at his date, her face now switching to affronted disbelief. He was left apologizing quickly over his shoulder as Sherlock practically dragged him down the stairs and out of the cinema. 

John just managed to toss the bucket of popcorn into the bin before following Sherlock out into the warm evening. 

-

John was reaching out to open the door into the pub where he was meeting his date, a lovely blonde who he had met at a different pub one night when he was drinking with Greg after a long night at NSY, when a familiar figure came strolling out of an alley and grabbed his arm, words pouring out of his mouth at an incomprehensible speed, and John barely managed from rolling his eyes as he realized his date was apparently not happening tonight. 

He would send her a text and ask to reschedule. If he remembered.

-

There was nothing particularly special about this restaurant, but the price was just that side of being appropriate for a date, and the food was decent. It also had the advantage of being a restaurant that he and Sherlock had never frequented, and he had never mentioned the name to Sherlock. Ever. He had made sure. 

His date, a pretty young brunette that he had met on the Tube to work a couple weeks ago, was clearly dressed to impress in a flattering black dress that hugged her curves in a most delightful way. She was pleasing to the eye, and the conversation was enjoyable as well.

They were eating dessert and their glasses were nearly empty. She had been smiling coyly and flirting unapologetically the whole evening, and John was fairly sure the night would be ending in her bed. At the very least it would end with a goodnight snog and promise of a second date. At least, he was sure it would have, had he not at that moment glanced out the window and saw a very distinct figure racing past the window. He watched for a moment, the dark coat flying behind the man as he chased after someone. 

John turned back to his date, apologizing as he pulled out his phone. There were no missed texts, which was, quite frankly, an anomaly. There were always missed texts when he was on a date. John may not be the genius that Sherlock Holmes is, but he’s pretty damn smart and can figure out patterned behavior. Sherlock always managed to text when he knew John was out. Even when John made sure to not specify it was a date. Sherlock always knew. 

He took a sip from his nearly empty wine glass, fingers tapping thoughtfully on his phone. No missed texts. If it was a case, surely Sherlock would have messaged him. In fact, John was fairly positive that Sherlock took any case he could if it timed well with one of John’s dates, even the ones, and twos. He had too much proof to go on. So why hadn’t he texted? Was he in trouble?

His date had been talking the whole time he was lost in thought, and he looked up at her when the silence across the table registered and he realized he hadn’t spoken or acknowledged her in any way. 

“I’m so sorry, what did you say?” he asked apologetically.

“I asked if everything was ok,” she said, indicating the mobile still in his hand.

John glanced at the mobile, then quickly slipped it back in his pocket. “Yes, yes, sorry. I thought I…” he trailed off again, his eyes going back to the window when he saw a flash of movement. A flash of movement in the shape of a certain consulting detective running in the opposite direction that he was running in a moment ago. What on earth was going on?

His hand went towards his pocket again, but no, he hadn’t heard a ping or felt a vibration. He looked back towards his date, who was giving him a slightly confused smile, and he remembered that this was going well, and if he played his cards right he would be having a pleasurable end to his evening. He forced Sherlock from his mind and gave his full attention, well, 90% of his attention, at least, to her again. 

Fresh glasses of wine had been poured for them both, and they picked up their earlier conversation, both easily falling back into the easy flirting and coy smiles. 

It lasted for about fifteen minutes before John’s attention was pulled away yet again, and he let out a half-chuckle that was a blend of fond and exasperated. Sherlock had just run past the window again, coat flying out behind him, and the pieces finally clicked together in John’s head. He looked towards his date, her sweet smile, and easy laugh, and gave his head a small shake. He began the lines of apology that were now just an accepted part of his dates, indicating to their waiter that he needed to go, and he pulled out his wallet and paid for their meals. She was understanding if slightly confused as to why their date was ending so abruptly, and John felt the smallest hint of regret, but he promised a second date which she agreed to, and he took off out the door, leaving her at the table. 

He started a light jog in the direction he had last seen Sherlock run down, and it was only a minute or so before he caught sight of the familiar silhouette standing on a street corner, and he ran up to him.

“Sherlock!” he called out, and the man turned towards his voice, his eyes widened slightly in surprise before he seemed to gather himself. “What are you doing here?”

“John,” he answered, turning towards him and pushing a hand into the pocket of his great coat. “I could ask you the same question.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “Well, I was on a date…”

“Yes, and I was on a case.”

“What case? You didn’t text me,” John says, trying to figure out exactly what game Sherlock was attempting to play. 

“No matter,” he waved a hand dismissively. “How was your date?”

“It was fine, she’s a lovely woman,” John answered, then circled the conversation back. “So what’s the case? Can I help? Were you chasing someone?”

“Why do you think I was chasing someone? I just got here,” Sherlock answered, and John knew his face showed his disbelief.

“For one thing, you’re sweating and your hair is a mess from running,” he informed him, and Sherlock’s free hand flew up subconsciously to his hair, fluffing it out, which did nothing for the disarray. Not that that detracted from the overall effect. 

“That’s two things, John,” he says, and John is now a thorough mix of confused and exasperated, but he decides not to call Sherlock out on the fact that he’s not answering John’s question about the case. 

He knows he saw him running around, and it is clear to John that he was doing it just to get John’s attention. There was no case. If there truly was one, they would not be standing on this street corner talking instead of running off after whatever clues Sherlock needed. 

The question was, as always, why. And John was starting to feel more confident that he knew why. 

“Coffee?” He asks, and Sherlock looks at him questioningly. 

“What about your date?” he asks, and John shrugs. 

“I’m sure she’s on her way home now.”

“Well, I guess there’s time for coffee,” Sherlock says, and John pretends he doesn’t notice the satisfied smile that flashes over his friend’s face as he turns and starts off down the street towards a coffee shop that he is sure he knows of. John shakes his head fondly as he watches after him, then takes a few quick steps to catch up to him, his heart suddenly beating far more wildly than the quick jog to catch up to him warranted. 

-

Sherlock was sitting at their kitchen table, eyes focused on whatever he was checking through the lens of his microscope when John walked down the stairs from his room. 

“You’re going on a date tonight,” he deduced, a glint in his eye.

“Yes, I am,” John confirmed, a smile playing over his features. 

“A new suit, John, really? You must like this one,” he said, his tone trying for teasing but falling a bit flat to John’s ear.

“Oh yes, actually, I like this one quite a lot,” he replied smoothly, not rising to Sherlock’s bait. 

Sherlock sniffs derisively and John hides his eye roll as he buttons his coat. 

“Well, I’m off. If you need me, don’t,” he says as he stuffs his keys, wallet, and mobile in their various pockets. 

“Of course, John, because the criminal classes of London make sure to take your date nights into account when committing crimes,” comes Sherlock’s snarky reply, following him down the stairs. He offers Sherlock a singular salute over his shoulder and makes his way out the door, then down the street to his date.

***

John sat at the small table in front of the restaurant near the window. A bottle of red wine on the table, but it hadn’t been poured yet. A small candle flickered between the two empty glasses that adorned the table. John watched the light of the candle reflect off them and make pretty images along the glass of the wine bottle. There were no menus on the table, but that wasn’t a concern because he knew this particular menu backward and forward.

The restaurant was relatively quiet around him tonight, or perhaps he just wasn’t paying much attention. Other couples filled the tables, perhaps a family or two, but it wasn’t enough of a distraction to keep his focus off of the door as he waited for his date to arrive. 

His right leg was bouncing without his input, nervous or excited, or perhaps both, and he had to consciously keep his hands from balling up in tense fists. So, maybe more nervous than he wanted to admit. 

He pulled out his phone in an attempt to keep his hands busy. He had been sitting here for nearly an hour now. He had noticed, though he tried not to, the occasional glances from other patrons that had come in at the same time he had. Pity and “poor sod” were clear in all of those glances, as it appeared that John had been stood up. 

No matter. John was ready and willing to wait for the rest of the evening if need be. Glancing at his phone, he quickly unlocked it and read over the three missed, or rather ignored, texts. It appeared Sherlock was back to taking cases when John had a date. There was even a missed phone call, but no voicemail left. If Sherlock really needed him for this “case”, he would have left a message. He didn’t need to worry about Sherlock getting himself in trouble then. Ok, good. He told himself that was a good thing and slid his phone back into his trouser pocket when the server came over to check if he needed anything. He shook his head, but the server came back a few moments later with a fresh candle for the table and John thanked him. 

Twenty more minutes passed before the door to the restaurant opened, and John looked up. He rose to his feet, a smile that he hoped wasn’t as nervous as he expected it was pulling at his lips. 

John took a moment to take in the sight before him. The always impeccable suit, the aubergine button-down that showcased milky skin and dark curls, and those piercing, intelligent eyes that saw everything. What did he see now, John wondered. 

Sherlock stepped up to his table, eyes quickly taking in the empty glasses, a full bottle of wine, the clean tablecloth and napkins, the absence of food. Then he looked at John and whatever he had been about to say, about this undoubtedly “urgent case” that he needs John for, died on his lips. 

“You’ve been stood up,” he says, frank and honest as ever, and John knows he doesn’t mean for it be hurtful. Sherlock often sees and knows and says without actually thinking about the consequences of his words. Yes, sometimes he says his deductions out loud to elicit a response or confession, but that was not his intent tonight. John knows this because Sherlock’s expression is surprised and even a touch angry that his date, the one he was clearly here to run off as he usually does, hadn’t shown up. 

“Not at all, he’s just running late,” John says, still trying to bite back the smile on his face.

“Well then you can come along and help me,” he begins as he turns to go back out the door, but then trails off, turning his body and attention back to John. “He?” He asks, and his brows rise slightly in question. 

“Yes, ‘he’,” John confirms, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “He was just running late.”

Sherlock turns towards the door, then back to John, his eyes searching over him again. 

“Was he, then?” Sherlock asks, and it’s somewhat softer than his voice usually is. 

“Yes, but he’s here now,” John says, and then gestures to the bench along the wall. “Have a seat.” It’s more a question, an invitation, than a statement, and he watches as Sherlock looks at him again, then the table and John hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until Sherlock gives a small nod and steps around him to sit at the offered spot, and he takes in a gulp of air to soothe his burning lungs. 

Ok. Good. This was good. He takes in another deep breath before returning to his seat, and it is at that moment that the owner of the establishment comes bustling to their table with a large, toothy grin on his face.

“Sherlock, John, always a pleasure,” Angelo proclaims in greeting, shaking both of their hands jovially in turn before he pulls the cork from the wine bottle and pours the lush mahogany liquid into the waiting glasses. “No menus, tonight. I have something special for my favorite couple,” he announces with a wink, then turns to head back into the kitchen. 

John watches as Sherlock’s eyes track the man carefully until he is out of sight. He tells himself that it’s a good thing Sherlock has decided to sit and join him. It must be good. He could have walked off if he wanted. He picks up the now filled wine glass in front of him and briefly considers offering a toast before deciding against it. 

He takes a small sip of the wine and lets the heavy, dry notes of oak and dark cherry sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Sherlock’s bright gaze, a startling bluish-green at the moment, turns to him and he meets his eyes. 

John feels like he often does under that intense gaze; completely flayed open and exposed in the most intimate of ways, and this time, he lets it happen without trying to throw up mental shields that he’s pretty positive never worked anyway. He wants Sherlock to see. He wants to be known. 

He wants Sherlock to know that he sees through the game he has been playing. A part of him wonders if Sherlock even realizes what he has been doing.

Sherlock reaches out for his own wine glass and takes a sip, and John’s eyes stray down to his neck as he swallows, his eyes tracking the movement of his Adam’s apple, and he feels warmth gather low in his belly at the sight. His gaze travels back to Sherlock’s eyes, and he begins to think that yes, Sherlock knew exactly what he had been doing.

He wanted to say “I see you, I see what you’ve been doing, I want to see more,” but what came out was “This wine is good,” and John felt like the idiot that Sherlock often accused him of being. What was he doing? 

Sherlock nodded in agreement but offered no reply. John’s right hand fidgeted with the knee of his trousers under the table as he tried to think of something, anything, to say. 

Luckily, he was spared another verbal flummox as Angelo arrived at that moment, placing a beautiful dish of ossobuco on a bed of risotto in front of each of them, the enticing aroma wafting up from the plate filling his senses in the most pleasant way. He looked up to Angelo, who offered him a sly wink and a “buon appetito”, before leaving the two men alone again. John looked to Sherlock, whose eyes were still taking in the table before them and assigning meaning to everything, before meeting John’s eyes. 

John realized he was holding his breath as Sherlock held his gaze. He was waiting, and he wasn’t entirely sure for what, but suddenly Sherlock offered a small, almost shy, smile, and John breathed again. They took up their forks and began to tuck into the meal before them as if it was like any other of the hundreds of meals they had shared. Which it was, of course. Just another meal. 

They were silent for a long time as they ate. The meal was absolutely exquisite and John couldn’t think of anything to say while they ate. Sherlock appeared equally unable to think of anything, and John began to worry that he had misread everything. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t been trying to ruin John’s dates out of any kind of romantic jealousy. Had he read everything wrong? It wasn’t like him to completely misread a situation like that, but this was Sherlock, and Sherlock was something entirely different.

He could feel himself edging on panic. Had he just messed up the best relationship of his life by assigning romantic intentions when there weren’t any?

His eyes peeked up at Sherlock, and he found that the man was watching him, those iridescent eyes that seem to see everything locked on him. 

“John, you’re thinking so loudly I’m surprised the whole restaurant can't hear you,” he says, and John huffs out a breath of a laugh.

“That loud, hm?” he asks, and Sherlock’s lips quirk up in response.

“Stop thinking. It’s fine. It’s all fine,” he says, and John feels something akin to relief wash over him at the statement. After that, the tension that had seemed to sit over their table broke, and they fell into their usual easy conversation and banter. John stopped thinking, and dinner went smoothly after that.

It was raining by the time they left the restaurant, full of delicious wine and dessert they had shared. Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat up, eyes cutting across to John, and John couldn’t help the smile that comes to his face at the look. _You, being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool._

Yes, he had been flirting with him. He was often flirting with him, without even being aware of it. Every look, every shared meal, every cup of tea made.

Every time he ran after Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hand shot out and a taxi pulled up to the kerb. He pulled open the door, glancing at John, and John climbed into the backseat under his arm as he held the door open for him. Sherlock followed him in, and John couldn’t help noticing that he sat closer to him on the seat than he normally would. John glanced at him before letting his eyes turn to look out the side window at the rain and darkened sky.

He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body as they sat silently, both of them looking out their respective windows, and neither spoke a word the entire ride back to their flat. The silence was heavy between them, and though John had stopped thinking at the restaurant, his thoughts came back now and refused to be ignored. He kept glancing slyly at his friend beside him, but no words came to him.

John pulled out his wallet and paid the cabbie as they arrived in front of 221b, and he followed Sherlock out of the taxi and into the now misting rain. Sherlock unlocked the door and they made their way inside and then up the stairs to their flat.

John walked in first, shedding his wet coat and toeing off his shoes as he would usually do. He knew Sherlock was behind him doing the exact same thing. As they always did. Nothing needed to change. They could both walk away from this night without embarrassment, he thought, if they wanted to. Continue as they have for the last year, skirting on the edges of something more, something undefinable, and that would be okay. They would still be friends. He took a deep, steadying breath as he made peace with his decision to let this end as every night did. 

He turned, opening his mouth to ask Sherlock if he would like a cup of tea, but when he took in the sight before him his thoughts stopped. 

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room and John absently noticed that the fire was going in the grate, and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock had just done it or if Mrs. Hudson had started it before they came home. It was an unimportant detail, but it was one that he took in along with everything else.

John noticed his socked feet, the toes of his right foot tapping quickly as he stood there, his hands were moving incessantly, long fingers fidgeting seemingly without conscious input, he was chewing on his bottom lip, and his eyes were locked on John with such intensity that John thought he wouldn’t be able to move if he wanted to.

“John,” he began, that rich baritone pouring out like honey into John’s ears, and he waited for what would be said next, but Sherlock stopped talking. John waited, but still, he said nothing. He watched as his friend suddenly began pacing back and forth across the worn rug in front of the fire, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it on the couch, his hands then raking through the drying curls atop his head, and John is completely mesmerized at his friend’s seeming agitation. 

Sherlock abruptly stops and turns to John, eyes locking onto him again. 

“This was a date, wasn’t it? That’s what it was meant to be.”

John felt his stomach plummet to his feet. Maybe they couldn’t move on from this as friends. 

“Sherlock, it’s fine. Just...forget this night, okay? Delete it,” he quickly said, trying to salvage what he could of what he was terrified was the ending of their friendship.

“What, why? Was it not a date?” Sherlock asks, and he seems genuinely confused now, and John doesn’t know what to say or do.

Sherlock walks up to him and John is suddenly overwhelmed by his proximity, the warmth of him, the smell of rain and Sherlock’s posh shampoo, as he tips his head back to meet his friend’s gaze as it sweeps over his face and reads everything John cannot hide.

“It was a date,” Sherlock says softly, his tone the same as when he’s deducing a crime scene and the pieces of the puzzle are all falling into place. John holds his gaze and something shifts in his friend’s eyes. Something shy and uncertain, but there was a heat there that caused John’s breath to quicken in response, and if he felt overwhelmed by Sherlock’s proximity before, then he was now drowning in it.

“Yes,” John murmurs, because he needs to confirm this for Sherlock, sees the question in his eyes that needs to hear the answer, and suddenly Sherlock is impossible closer, and those lush lips that John so often thought of were upon his in a tentative, almost chaste kiss as his hands reached out and rested on John’s hips.

His mouth opened in a gasp and Sherlock took advantage, his warm tongue pushing past his lips and John felt his knees weaken in response, his hands grasping onto the front of Sherlock’s shirt as the kiss deepened. John’s mind was on overdrive, his thoughts whirling in freefall. This wasn’t at all what he thought was going to happen just moments ago and he felt completely off-balanced. He pulled back from the kiss for air and Sherlock chased back after him, refusing to acknowledge that something like breathing was worth ending a kiss for, and John gave in to it, meeting Sherlock’s tongue with his own and unable to hold back the moan that formed in the back of his throat. 

Sherlock pressed closer, his long fingers tightening on John’s hips, and John tore his mouth away, his hands loosening on Sherlock’s shirt and coming up to cup his face gently, his fingers tracing over his jaw, his cheekbones, the hair at the back of his neck. Sherlock shivered at the touch, his eyes closing at John’s touch.

“You want this,” he says, not quite a statement or a question, his voice full of wonder. Jesus, Sherlock wanted this. Wanted him. His eyes were scanning all over his friend’s face in awe.

“John,” he says, eyes opening, and John sees the desire clear in that gaze. Desire, and something softer, something deeper.

John pulls Sherlock’s mouth back down to his and this time the kiss is more gentle, more exploratory, a caress of lips and slide of slick tongues. There was no rushing this kiss. It was an acceptance of what was happening between them, their bodies pressing tightly together, hands lightly exploring the other. 

Sherlock pulls away this time for breath, and John feels the absence of his mouth acutely. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock’s lips quirked up as he reaches out and begins to unbutton John’s suit jacket, then pushes it off his shoulders and tossed it next to his on the couch.

“I like this suit on you,” he says, his voice playfully teasing, and John smiles at him.

“I thought it brought out the color of my eyes nicely,” he replies, and his breath catches in his throat as Sherlock’s hands move to the tie around his neck, his nimble fingers deftly loosening the knot and pulling it off John slowly and letting it fall to pool on the floor. His hands then move to the top button of his shirt and pops it open. Another follows as Sherlock looks down into his eyes.

Oh, God. Is this really happening? His mouth is dry and he swallows thickly as Sherlock pushes his shirt open, exposing his neck and throat, and he bends his head to attach his mouth to John’s jugular and his hands grasp tightly on Sherlock’s waist to keep himself from falling over. Sherlock’s mouth is warm on his skin and he lets out a moan as he gently nips at the skin with his skin, his tongue darting out after to soothe the bite. John’s eyes fall closed as he tilts his head to allow Sherlock better access, and his hands begin to tug at the shirt tucked into tight trousers. Once the ends are freed, John slips his hands over the warm skin of his waist, hips, his back, and Sherlock groans before pulling back and claiming John’s mouth in a searing kiss.

It is not gentle or kind. It is burning. John feels as if he is on fire and every touch of Sherlock’s hands on his skin raises the flames higher. Hands are everywhere, shirt buttons coming undone to reveal more, touch more, and John is suddenly being held between their front door and Sherlock’s body. It’s a good thing, too, because John isn’t sure he would be able to stand without support at the moment. 

“Bed?” he asks, breaking the kiss just enough to let out the single word, and Sherlock answers with a press of his hips into John’s body, and John’s brain temporarily stops at the feel of Sherlock’s arousal against him. 

He pushes himself off the door and meets Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss as they attempt to navigate their flat to the closest bedroom, Sherlock’s, without detaching. They don’t make it far before John knocks his foot into a table, sending newspapers scattering to the floor, and he pulls back from the kiss with a swear for his aching toes. Their eyes meet and John can’t help the bubble of laughter that rises out of him as he clutches his foot while standing on the other, and then they’re both laughing. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked as their laughter calmed down, and John smiles as he nods his head.

“Yeah, fine. Not as smooth as I thought I was,” he answers with a laugh and Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with mirth. 

John released his foot and Sherlock reached for hands, pulling him close and guiding them down the hallway to the bedroom. John watches his face, the way his eyes keep sweeping over John, and he feels the arousal that had ebbed slightly when he hit the table come back under that burning gaze. 

Sherlock releases one hand and opens his bedroom door before pulling John inside and kicking the door closed behind them. Sherlock lowers his mouth to his again, another tentative start of a kiss, and his fingers unbutton John’s shirt, tugging them out of his trousers when they get to the bottom, and his own fingers are removing Sherlock’s shirt, releasing the buttons on his cuffs before pushing the shirt off his shoulders. 

Sherlock is pulling him forward as he walks them backwards towards the bed, and when his knees hit, Sherlock sits down without breaking the kiss, and John’s hands move to cup his face again, his fingers pushing into thick curls. Sherlock’s hands move to John’s hips, fingers dipping into the waistband of his trousers, before moving to pop the button on the top. John’s breath catches as those skillful fingers tug down the zipper and John pulls back from the kiss to look down into Sherlock’s eyes.

He is the most beautiful person John has ever seen and John feels like the luckiest man in the world at that moment. They should talk. They need to talk. Before this goes further, they should talk. John needs to know if this is what he hopes it is. The beginning of something more, and not just this once. 

But then Sherlock’s hands were pushing down his trousers to his knees and he dipped one large hand into his pants and palmed his aching length. John forgot everything as the eyes he was looking into darkened as the pupils expanded wildly and nearly blocked out the irises. 

“Oh God,” he uttered, and Sherlock smirked.

“Not quite,” his deep voice intoned, deeper than John had ever heard it before, and John felt something between a groan and a huff of laughter get caught in his throat. Sherlock’s hand tightened around him, pulling on him, and John let his head fall back as his eyes closed. He shivered as Sherlock’s thumb swept over his slit, collecting the wetness that was already beading there. 

He pulled his head back down and leaned down to kiss Sherlock, his tongue delving inside without preamble as Sherlock’s hand began working on him more purposefully. John’s thighs began to shake from the strain of standing and he let his hands fall to Sherlock’s shoulders and began to push him down onto the mattress. The kiss broke as Sherlock let his hand fall away from John and they both panted heavily at the loss of contact. 

John stepped back and then stepped out of his trousers and socks. He pushed his pants down and off as well, his cock springing free proudly. He approached the bed again as Sherlock watched him from where he was laying back, propped up on his elbows, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. John stepped between his legs as they hung over the edge of the bed and thumbed open the button of Sherlock’s trousers, then unzipped them. Sherlock’s eyes were heavy-lidded as John requested silent permission to remove them, and Sherlock lifted his hips in response. John hooked his fingers in the trousers and the silk black pants, pulling them slowly off and tossing them on the floor. He lifted Sherlock’s legs one at a time and peeled off his socks, as well. 

Then he stopped. 

He looked down at the man before him. The expanse of smooth milky skin, the delightfully disheveled curls, the peaked rosy nipples, the lines of muscle, the beautiful hard cock. His heart pounded in his chest at the beauty of this man, his best friend, and he couldn’t wait any longer. 

His hands traced up the strong thighs from his knees and John felt Sherlock’s muscles jump at the touch. His thumbs traced the crease between inner thigh and groin. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on his hands and John watched as his cock twitched in anticipation, which sent a jolt of arousal to his own groin. He bent his head and nuzzled into Sherlock, breathing in his scent at the base of his cock. He heard as much as felt Sherlock groan, and his eyes traveled up the long body until their gaze met. Eyes locked, John’s tongue came out and licked up his length. The look on Sherlock’s face was almost enough to have him coming right there. He closed his eyes and took Sherlock’s glans into his mouth, tasting and sucking softly, and hummed in appreciation when Sherlock’s hips bucked up against his will. He pinned his hips down with his right forearm and brought his left hand up to cup Sherlock’s balls, gently kneading and rolling them between his fingers. Sherlock’s breathing was quick and the sounds coming out of him were making John wild with desire. 

“J-John, you need to stop or I’m going to come right now. I don’t want to come yet. Not yet,” Sherlock started babbling, and John reluctantly pulled his mouth and hand off of him. He watched as Sherlock’s chest rose and fell quickly with his breathing as he tried to bring himself back from the brink. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John breathes out, and Sherlock smiles as he opens his eyes, his body coming under his control again. He pushes himself back on the bed, shoving the duvet off and out of the way as he goes, then lays back down with his head on a pillow. 

“Come up here,” Sherlock says, and John stares in appreciation for a moment before crawling up over Sherlock’s body, his knees bracketing his hips and his hands over his shoulders as he leans over him before claiming his mouth in a kiss, tongues meeting and sliding against each other. Sherlock’s arms came up and pulled him down to cover his body, and they both shivered at the sudden warmth and contact. 

Then Sherlock hooks his leg over John’s hip and twists, sending John tumbling down to the mattress and Sherlock on top. 

“Smooth,” John laughs out, and Sherlock’s smile is radiant.

“Well, one of us had to be,” he chuckles, and John finds himself in that lovely place between arousal and amusement, where sex is both fun and joyful. He shifts under Sherlock’s hips as he’s being pinned down, and they both gasp out in pleasure when their matching hardness aligns and brush against each other. Arousal takes over amusement as Sherlock rolls his hips intentionally this time, and John’s hands go to rest on his hips, fingers digging into the smooth skin. His eyes travel up the length of his body and John thinks he could watch this sight for the rest of his life and never once get bored of it. A lovely pink flush gives color to Sherlock’s pale chest and neck, and he’s so beautiful that John wishes he was an artist in order to paint this scene before him to always have. Sherlock’s hand reaches down and grasps both of them, and John cries out as the feeling floods through his body. 

His hand works them both almost lazily at first, enjoying the sensation of hard flesh on hard flesh, but then he lets go and leans over and rummages in his side table. John hears the familiar snik of a bottle being opened. Then the hand that holds them both is warm and slick and it’s working them faster and tighter and both of them lose the rhythm of their hips as their breathing gets heavy and the sounds that fill the room are carnal and raw. Both tumble headfirst over the edge into that blissful agony of orgasm, come spurting hotly over their bellies and each other’s names on their lips. 

When they come back to their senses, Sherlock gracefully gets off the bed and goes into the bath. John hears water running, and then Sherlock returns with a warm flannel and carefully cleans John of the sticky mess their lovemaking had left behind. He tosses it on the floor, then crawls back onto the bed beside John. 

They’re both staring up at the ceiling as their breathing and heart rates come back to normal. John can’t stop the smile that stretches across his face. He can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up, either. 

The deep chuckle that responds to his giggle gently shakes the bed and John suddenly knows that this is exactly where he was supposed to be, and where Sherlock wants to be, and he’s lying in bed after the best orgasm of his life beside his best friend and he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier in his life. His heart is full and his body satiated. 

“I didn’t peg you as the kind to fall into bed after a first date,” John teases playfully as he turns his head to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock turns to his side, his eyes locked on John’s and he smiles. “That was hardly our first date, John,” he says. He leans in and gently presses his lips to John’s, and John smiles into the kiss.

No, John supposes. That wasn’t their first date. It wouldn’t be their last, either.


End file.
